


Wolf Boy

by oschun



Series: Wolfy Tales [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John Winchester, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Sam Winchester Has Powers, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-09 18:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20122771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oschun/pseuds/oschun
Summary: In search of their father, Sam and Dean find themselves in a snowy mountain village that is besieged by wolves.Second story in the Wolfy Tales series, an AU storyworld built on canon-compliant events, except Sam is born with his powers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voodoogypsyeyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoogypsyeyes/gifts), [Wisperwind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisperwind/gifts).

> This first chapter is smuttier than the previous story. Plot to follow in the next chapter.

The snow-banked track leading into the village is ice-roughed and crunches beneath the horses’ hooves. Their puffing, labored breath whitens in the frigid air. Sam lets go of the reins and clenches his hands a few times to get his circulation going. His thick leather gloves offer little protection from the seeping cold. They’ve been riding since dawn, following the winding track through the mountains to get to the village. The thought of hot food and something warm to drink makes him clutch the reins again and spur his horse onward.

Dean is ahead of him. He turns and smiles, his face just visible inside the hood of his shaggy sheepskin coat. The snow-reflected light makes his eyes look so green. Sam returns the smile. Thoughts of food and drink are pushed aside by the desire to be in something approximating a bed with his brother, wrapped in blankets and body heat. They’ve been travelling for months now, following their dad’s trail through the black hill country and then north into the mountains. Hard country, and so cold. The sun has barely risen all day.

Candles glow in the windows of the houses they pass. The inn they were told about in the previous hamlet appears ahead, brightly lit, a beacon in the darkness that has suddenly descended.

A sullen-looking boy with a lamp comes out of the inn and leads their horses into the adjoining stables. He disappears when the horses are settled and they make their way inside the inn where it’s warm and smoky. A log fire burns in the grate and there’s a rich, meaty smell of a stew cooking. They kick off the snow from their boots and remove their sheepskins and outer-layers of clothing, instantly starting to sweat in the warmth of the room. The men at the bar are all burly, bearded woodsmen. They turn and nod in greeting, then go back to their drinks, disinterested, a weary set to their heavy shoulders, not talking.

The innkeeper comes out from behind the counter of the bar. “Passing through?”

“We need a room for the night if you have one, or the stable if you don’t.”

“There’s a room. Only the one. You’ll have to share.”

Sam’s lips twitch because he knows what Dean’s thinking when he says, “We’re used to sharing.”

“Stew’s in the pot,” the innkeeper says, pointing at it hanging over the fire. “I’ll get you some bowls.”

They eat hungrily in front of the fire, concentrating on the food, their damp clothes steaming in the heat. Sam leans back in his chair when he’s done and stretches out his legs, feeling full and satisfied. He wiggles his toes, grateful to know they’re still there after hours of numbing coldness. Dean is lazily rubbing his belly and Sam’s eyes are drawn to the bare stretch of skin revealed by his rucked-up shirt. Dean’s lips twitch and he scratches his fingernails through the line of hair that disappears into his pants. Sam raises his eyebrows and looks over his shoulder, but no-one’s watching them.

“Good to feel warm again. Thought my dick was going to freeze off when I went for a pee earlier. And how sad would that be, Sam?”

Sam snorts quietly and burrows his shoulders deeper into the cushion behind him, his eyelids growing heavy.

“Want a drink before bed?”

Sam nods and rouses himself. They go over to the bar and order a drink. One of the woodsmen, a guy with a big black beard and arms the size of tree trunks, looks them over and asks, “Did you come through the woods alright?”

Nodding, Dean answers, “A lot of snow on the ground and the track was pretty icy, but we got through alright.” 

“See any wolves out there?”

“Why?” Dean asks casually. “There been wolves around?”

The woodsman gives a humorless snort. “You could say that.”

The older, grizzled man next to him shifts in his seat. “You’d be wise not to go out at night around here.”

Sam watches Dean swirl the whiskey in his glass, the lamplight catching the color, turning it gold, then amber. “Have they come into the village?”

The black-bearded guy snorts again and stares into the bottom of his glass, his jaw clenched.

“Anybody been bitten?” Dean asks, darting Sam a glance. 

The innkeeper is polishing glasses with a cloth. “Three kids have been killed. First one when he went out to get firewood. Then a brother and sister were taken three days later from their backyard. Wolf tracks everywhere. Thank God they didn't find the remains. Too terrible for a parent to see something like that.”

“It’s not natural,” the old guy says, finishing his drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wolves don’t act like this. None that I ever saw or heard about.”

Dean catches Sam’s eye and they look at each other silently, sharing the same unspoken thought. Sam can feel the hairs raising on his arms.

The innkeeper places the glasses he was wiping on a shelf behind the bar and throws the cloth over his shoulder. “Last night three of them got into somebody’s kitchen, brazen as hell, and grabbed a little boy right in front of his mother and his brothers and sisters. By the time anybody knew what was happening, the wolves had dragged him outside. Lucky for the boy, his father came along right then, had his axe with him and killed one of them. The other two got away.”

“What happened to the body of the dead wolf?”

The innkeeper raises his eyebrows. “What do you think. Threw it out at the edge of the forest. We didn’t give it a funeral or anything.”

“Was the boy alright?”

“Fortune was smiling on that kid. He was scared and shook up but there wasn’t a scratch on him.”

“Lucky,” the old guy says. The others nod.

Dean looks at a pair of shotguns propped against the bar. “Been out hunting them?”

“We’ve been out every day,” the black-bearded guy replies. “Shot one myself this morning. There’s a half dozen of them dead since this thing started, lying out there in the woods. But they’re not scared of anything. And there's so many of them. Never seen a pack so big.”

“Damn army of them,” the old guy adds. “You need to get that Satan-faced leader of the pack. Big grey wolf. Shoot him right between the eyes. They’ll scatter, move someplace else if you get him. Never seen anything like it. Unnatural.”

“Maybe they’re running out of food in the woods,” Sam offers. “It’s a cold winter. They’re hungry. Might be why they’re coming into the village.”

The black-bearded guy shakes his head. “Something strange about it. The way they target the children. And coming into a house to grab a child like that? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

“Wolf assassins,” the old guy mutters.

Dean gives Sam a look and Sam nods imperceptibly. “You going out tomorrow? My brother and I hunt. We could come out with you. Lend a hand.”

The black-bearded guy looks at Dean narrowly. “Why? You want payment?”

“No,” Dean says firmly. “Just doesn’t seem right what’s happening here. We’d be happy to help.”

“You got a gun?” the old guy asks.

“Of course they got guns, Isiah,” the black-bearded guy says with a snort. “Look at them.”

Sam's noticed how people respond differently to them now. When they first left home, they were still fresh-faced and they were often treated like naïve youngsters. Now, after months of being toughened by rough living and scarred by experience, they elicit a very different response: suspicion, respect, and occasionally even fear.

“Where you boys say you were on your way to?”

“We didn’t,” Dean replies and swallows his whiskey.

“We’re looking for someone,” Sam says in a friendlier tone. “A man called John Winchester. We thought he might’ve passed through here.”

The innkeeper nods his head. “Sure. Dark-haired fella with a beard, travelling on his own. Passed through a few weeks back.”

“Taciturn.”

The two woodsmen turn to look at the third man at the end of the bar, who’s been silent throughout the conversation. He’s burly, red-haired and has thickly-muscled forearms. “Taciturn,” he says again. “It means quiet.”

The innkeeper laughs. “Yeah, that’s right. He was quiet. Why you looking for him?”

“He’s our father.”

The innkeeper raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t seem like a family man.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

The innkeeper shakes his head. “No, like I said, he kept to himself, only stayed the one night.”

“He took the road north when he left, heading higher into the mountains, wild country,” The red-haired man answers and gets up to leave.

The other two drain their glasses and get to their feet. “If you’re serious about helping, we’ll be heading out in the morning. We need as many hunters as we can get.”

A draught of icy air fills the room when they go, banging the heavy door behind them.

The innkeeper gives the bar a final wipe with his cloth. “I’ll show you the room. It’s simple but clean.”

They gather their things and follow him down a passageway to a room at the end of it. There’s a frayed rug on the stone floor, two single beds, a roughly-hewn pine table and two matching chairs, a stack of wood in the fireplace, a washbasin on the hearth.

The innkeeper says goodnight and closes the door behind him.

Sam pushes the two beds together and Dean dumps his leather bag on the table. He takes out the revolver and shotgun and starts cleaning them. Sam watches the deft, practiced movements of his hands. The room is much colder than the bar of the inn. He looks at the logs stacked in the fireplace, concentrates, then watches the flames leap up and burn.

“You could just light it with a match like a normal person,” Dean says dryly.

Sam shrugs. “You don’t complain when we have to camp out in the cold. So what do you think’s going on here? It’s not a werewolf.”

Dean checks the revolver’s safety. “No, it’s not a werewolf, but it sounds like something. We’ll check it out tomorrow.” He leaves the revolver on the table, moves a chair over to the fire and swings a copper kettle hooked on a lever over the heat, then sits and silently watches the flames. He looks tired. Sam stretches out on one of the beds and feels the muscles in his back and legs start to unknot. It’s warm now that the fire has heated the room. 

When steam comes out of the kettle’s spout, Dean gets a cloth from the bag, pours the heated water into the washbasin and strips off his clothes, hanging them over the back of the chair. The flickering light from the fire makes his skin look like gold. Sam lies on the bed watching Dean wash himself. He feels a tightening in his groin. The sight of Dean’s naked body always does that to him. He eyes follow the line of a still-red scar across Dean’s rib from his spine around his side. Courtesy of a creature they hunted in the black hill country, something they didn’t even know the name for. Tall and upright like a man, long claws and teeth like razorblades, with an appetite for human flesh.

The need to touch Dean grows too strong to resist. Sam strips off his shirt and moves to stand behind him, pressing his bare chest to Dean’s back. He drops a kiss on Dean's shoulder and another at the top of his spine, nuzzling the hair at his nape. Dean sighs - a quiet, soft sound. Reaching forward, Sam takes the wet cloth from his hand and starts wiping his back. Taking his time, he kisses the patches of skin he cleans, wiping with the cloth, then kissing and tasting with his tongue, mapping the whole of Dean’s back. Goosebumps appear on Dean’s skin and he leans forward, one hand on the mantelpiece.

Sam kneels behind him, ignoring the way Dean stiffens. He runs the cloth over Dean’s legs and rubs the tight muscles of his calves, feeling them relax under his hands. He slides his hand up the inside of Dean’s leg and fondles his balls. They tighten in his hand and he hears Dean groan low in his throat. Reaching up between Dean's legs, he strokes his hardening dick and presses a kiss to the hard muscle of his ass.

Dean stiffens again and says, “Sam,” in a warning tone.

“You’re allowed to want it,” Sam says quietly. He wipes the cleft between Dean’s cheeks, then leans forward and nuzzles between them, hardening instantly at the intimacy, wanting to use his tongue to give Dean pleasure, but before he can, Dean pulls away and turns around, his expression tight and conflicted.

Sam leans back on his haunches. Dean looks down at him, holds his dick and presses it against Sam’s lips. “What I want is to see your mouth on me.”

Sam sighs, but opens his lips and lets Dean push inside, one hand on his erection as he feeds it into Sam’s mouth, the other cradling the back of his head. Sam sucks and darts his tongue into the slit, tasting salty fluid. Dean pushes deeper and Sam opens wider, letting him in, then reaches up between Dean’s legs and rubs his finger against Dean’s hole.

Dean makes a frustrated sound, reaches down and pulls Sam up into his arms, his expression is irritated. “Why do you have to ruin a perfectly good blowjob by doing that.”

Sam wraps an arm around him and kisses Dean’s neck, pressing patient kisses against his skin up to his ear. “It doesn’t have to be just when you’re drunk. I want to do it, with my tongue and my fingers. I like it. You like it. Stop being so stubborn.” 

Dean huffs a sigh. “I’m the one who’s stubborn?” He pulls Sam over to the bed, pushes him down on it and collapses on top of him. “You should be re-named _Sam, the Stubborn_, the stubbornest person that ever lived.” He kisses Sam’s forehead. “You’re my brother and I love you, but you’ve got some serious personality flaws. Your stubbornness being one of them.”

“Really?” Sam says, widening his legs so Dean can fit between them. “If we’re being open about personality flaws, how about your dishonesty? I know you like it when I put my fingers inside you.” He digs his heels into the bed and rubs up against Dean, watching with satisfaction the way Dean’s mouth opens in a little gasp. “And I know you like it when I put my tongue inside you. It’s not dirty. It makes me really hard.”

Dean sits up and pulls Sam’s pants off him. He throws them over his shoulder and fits back into the vee between Sam’s legs. “Not everything is about what you want. That’s called selfishness. It’s another personality flaw.”

Sam wraps his legs around Dean’s body and hooks his ankles together. “It’s not selfish when I’m actually trying to give you what you want. It’s called doing somebody a favor. For their own good. It’s called mag—it’s called magnanimity,” he stutters, forgetting the word when Dean starts thrusting against him. The heated friction between their bodies causes a jolt of pleasure to run through him and his back arches against his will.

Dean laughs, the sound slightly breathless. “You’re a scholar, Sam, but nobody likes a person who throws big words around.”

Sam loosens his legs from around Dean’s waist, places one foot against the mattress for leverage and rolls them over so he’s lying on top. Dean laughs in surprise and grips the back of Sam's neck, pulling him down into a rough kiss. “Turns you on to push me around, doesn’t it?”

Sam kisses him back, then lifts his head. “Turn over.” Dean won’t meet his eyes and tries to reach between the tight fit of their bodies. Sitting up, Sam bats his hand away from his crotch. “Dean, turn over,” he repeats firmly. 

Dean lies on his back with his eyes shut and his arms at his sides for a few minutes. Sam waits him out. Eventually, he opens his eyes and growls, “Here’s another word for you, Sam. Bossy.”

“Just let me,” Sam insists quietly.

Dean’s expression shifts into resigned acceptance and he rolls onto his stomach. Sam straddles him and takes a minute to admire the smooth lines and hard planes of his back before he starts massaging the tense, knotted muscles. Dean groans and relaxes. “That feels good.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Sam whispers and leans forward to kiss his ear. He shifts lower, sucks a finger into his mouth, wets it, and runs it down Dean’s spine, into the dip of his lower back and between his cheeks. Dean shifts against the mattress. Sam circles his hole before pressing inside. His body is so hot and tight. Dean makes a sound, a quick inhalation and a moan when he breathes out. Sam leans forward and kisses him between his shoulder blades, pushing his finger deeper, moving it gently inside him, rubbing, pulling out and back in again. Dean widens his legs. Sam spits on two fingers and eases both in. Dean starts thrusting against the mattress. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his back.

“Does it feel good?” Sam asks in a hushed voice, watching his fingers move in and out of Dean’s body.

“You know it does,” Dean replies hoarsely.

“Say it then.”

“Okay, you win, alright. It feels really good. Now can you put your dick inside me before I come from rubbing against the mattress.”

Sam laughs, pulls his fingers out and affectionately bites Dean’s butt cheek. “Can we try—can you,” he falters, then clears his throat.

Dean smirks at him over his shoulder. "What happened to being open? Can't have what you can't ask for, Sam."

Sam clears his throat again. “Can you get up on your knees and put your hands against the wall.”

Dean gives a short, slightly self-conscious laugh, but does what Sam asks. “Like this?”

“Yes,” Sam answers breathlessly, running his eyes over the taut stretch of muscle in Dean’s arms, down his back, his ass and thighs. He lines up behind him, spits on his hand and rubs it along the length of his erection. Holding onto Dean’s hips, he nudges forward, starts pushing in, feels the breach as he pushes past the tight ring of outer muscle. “Is this okay?”

Dean’s voice is rough when answers. “Yeah, it’s good. Just go slow.”

Slowly, Sam inches deeper, eventually sheathing himself fully. He bites his lip and tries not to come.

Dean curves his spine and pushes back. “Okay. Come on.”

Sam takes a steadying breath and wraps one arm around Dean's body, pulling him closer against his chest. He uses his other hand to jerk him off as he starts thrusting. Dean curses and pants his name. His body feels fire-hot in Sam's arms and they're both sweating. Dean bucks into Sam’s hand and comes, the contractions inside his body tipping Sam over the edge and making him come with a loud broken sound.

“Jesus,” Dean exclaims when they collapse back on the bed and try to catch their breath.

“You alright?”

Dean rolls on his side. “Yeah, I’m good. Not sure I’m going to be able to walk tomorrow, but yeah. I came so hard I thought I was going to pass out there for a minute.”

Sam smiles and gives Dean’s face a gentle stroke before getting up. He rinses the cloth in the tepid water in the washbasin, wipes himself clean, rinses it again, then goes over to the bed and does the same to Dean, gently wiping his soft dick, the thatch of hair between his legs, his inner thighs. He pushes Dean’s leg out and gently wipes his hole. It's red and puffy looking. Dean hisses but doesn’t push his hand away, just allows Sam’s gentle ministrations, a half smile on his face.

Sam kisses the inside of his thigh and lies down next to him, pulling the blanket over them. He listens to the sound of Dean breathing, reaches out and places his hand on Dean’s chest so he can feel his heartbeat too. “Where do you think Dad’s heading?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know. I guess he’s hunting. Maybe he’s on the trail of the monster that killed mom. Maybe something else.”

“He passed through here a couple of weeks ago. We’re getting close.”

“Yeah, we are.” There’s a wary undertone to Dean’s voice.

“He can’t find out about this.”

“No, he can’t,” Dean agrees. “It’s nobody’s business but ours.”

“I want you all the time. When I look at you—it’s, just, well, it’s there all the time. It’s been like that since I can remember.”

Dean ruffles his hair. “I know. It’s okay, Sam. Me too.” Sam can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “It’s because I’m so irresistible, right? Did you say I was _beautiful _earlier when you were all hot and flustered? You’ve got a thing for my back, right? And you’ve obviously got a major thing for my ass.”

Sam snorts. “There’s a word for that personal flaw, you know. It’s called vanity.”

Dean laughs. “Just being honest, like you told me to.” He reaches up and turns down the gaslight until the flame disappears, kisses Sam’s forehead, and rolls over onto his side.

Sam lies in the dark watching the shadows flicker on the ceiling as the fire dies down. He’s tired but his mind won’t rest. He listens to the sound of Dean’s deep breathing and starts thinking about the families in the village mourning the loss of their children. He tenses at the thought of an army of wolves ranged out there in the darkness of the forest, waiting.

It’s at that exact moment when a single howl breaks the stillness of the night. Sam sits up, instantly alert. Dean mumbles something in his sleep but doesn’t wake up. Sam gets up and walks over to the window, shivering in the coldness of the room now that the fire has died.

He pulls open the drapes and looks outside. It’s still and silent, the snow glowing white under the full moon. He scans the road outside and the darkened houses. Nothing moves. Then something catches his eye, a movement in the darkness near the stables next to the inn. He strains his eyes but can’t make out what it is. There’s another movement and a shadow separates itself from the darkness and steps out into the moonlight. Something shaped like a person but bulky and shaggy looking.

It moves nearer and Sam realizes the bulky shape is some kind of animal skin coat when a hand appears and pushes off the hood. It’s a man. Or no, not a man, a teenage boy. His hair is long, black and wild. He stands there watching Sam and then his teeth flash in a white grin. He lifts his hand and does something at his neck. The coat drops to the ground. Sam sucks in a surprised breath to see he’s naked underneath. His skin is pale in the moonlight. Sam looks down and realizes he’s standing there in the window completely naked himself. There’s another flash of white teeth, then the boy picks up his coat and wraps it around himself.

Sam steps back a pace from the window when the boy lifts his head and howls. It sounds exactly like the howl of a wild wolf. There’s an answering howl further away in the woods. The boy flashes him another smile, then turns and lopes off toward the side wall of the stables. He scrambles up it, agile and something animalistic about his movements, then disappears.

Sam puts on his coat and watches at the window for over an hour, but nothing else happens. Eventually he goes back to bed. Dean grumbles and pulls him close. “Cold,” he mutters.

Sam gets very little sleep, the strangeness of the whole thing playing over and over in his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot, as promised.

Sam tells Dean about the boy he saw outside as they’re getting dressed the next morning.

“Sure you weren't dreaming?”

“I told you, Dean. I was awake. I saw him. There was something—I don’t know, something strange about him.”

“What, besides him howling at the moon and flashing his naked body at you?” Dean says dryly as he finishes lacing up his boots. His expression turns serious when Sam sighs loudly. “Okay, so it wasn’t a dream. Is he a creature? Something like a werewolf? Did you have that feeling you get?”

Sam frowns as he struggles to verbalize his thoughts. It’s like this for him. His perceptions are so instinctive that they’re hard to define and explain. “No, he’s human. He just _felt_ different.”

Dean comes over and starts buttoning Sam's shirt for him. “Different how?”

Sam grits his teeth. “Dean, don’t do that.”

Dean looks at him questioningly, his fingers pausing. He notices Sam’s expression, looks down, then grins sheepishly and drops his arms to his sides. “Sorry, didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

Sam nips him sharply on the ear in punishment. “I’m not five-years-old. I can dress myself.”

Dean rubs the spot on his ear where Sam bit him and says with a smirk, “Want me to undress you instead?” He leans forward and presses a kiss to the base of Sam’s throat. “We could make it quick.” He moves closer, voice turning husky as he sucks the pulse in Sam’s neck, his hand slipping inside Sam’s shirt and stroking his nipple.

In spite of his irritation, Sam feels a stirring of arousal. Dismissing the temptation, he bites Dean on the ear again and pushes him away. “Can you concentrate for a second.”

Dean grins and nods, stepping back. He adjusts himself, then pulls on a heavy, woolen overshirt. “Okay, let’s get some breakfast, then find out what the hell is going on in this village.”

Sam does up his last few buttons and follows Dean out of the room and down the passageway. “I think the wolves are here because of him.”

“Or he’s just a weird village kid who likes to get naked and spy on people. Why didn’t you put your pants on before standing in front of the window.” Dean suddenly stops and looks at him, his expression hardening. “Was he touching himself when he was looking at you?”

Sam sighs. “No, Dean, he wasn’t. It wasn’t really about that.”

“It wasn’t _really _about that? What was it about then? Did you like him looking at you?”

Sam laughs. “You’re joking, right?”

Dean arches his eyebrows and Sam laughs again. “It was more like a gesture. I don’t know, like an acknowledgement or something.”

“So you had a little moment with him? A naked moment.”

Sam punches him lightly on the arm. “Stop being stupid. You’re so possessive.”

Dean snorts and continues walking. “I’m possessive? That’s called hypocrisy, little brother.”

“Big word, Dean.”

Dean’s retort is cut off when they enter the central room of the inn and the innkeeper comes out to greet them. They take a seat at a long oak table near the fire. The innkeeper makes some small talk, then goes out and returns with plates of corn bread, fried potatoes and slabs of roasted meat.

Sam asks him about the boy when he puts the plates in front of them. 

“Outside in the middle of the night?” the innkeeper asks incredulously. “There’s no way. Not with all these wolf attacks. Nobody’s letting their children out of their sight, not for a minute. Sure you weren’t dreaming?”

Sam sighs impatiently. “He looked about sixteen. Long black hair. Sort of wild looking.”

“Doesn’t sound like any kid I know in the village.” The innkeeper’s expression turns contemplative. “Well, there’s… but that’s all nonsense. Just talk.”

“What is?” Sam pushes.

“The past few years there’ve been stories about a boy growing up wild out there in the forest with the wolves. It’s all nonsense, of course. A kid couldn’t survive like that.”

He sits down with them, his voice turning conspiratorial. “Some people like to think he’s the son of Aaron and Martha Browning. Sixteen years ago she was travelling at night from the village just south of here. Her and the children. Two little girls and a baby boy. She was attacked by a pack of wolves. They ripped the children right out of her arms. She was lucky to escape herself. Never been the same since. Not right in the head. Aaron couldn’t cope with her being like that and talking all kinds of strange nonsense about the little boy still being alive. He just upped and left and nobody’s heard from him since.” 

The innkeeper snorts and stands up. “I mean what do you think happened? Those wolves felt sorry for it and reared the baby as one of their own? Not likely. Meat is meat to a wolf.” 

“Where does she live? Martha Browning.” Sam asks.

“Small cottage as you come into the village. But you won’t get anything that makes sense out of her. Take it from me, there’s no kid out there. You were dreaming.” The innkeeper walks out of the room, shaking his head.

After they’ve eaten, Sam gets up and shrugs on his sheepskin coat.

Dean frowns at him. “Where are you going?”

“To see Martha Browning.”

“Why?”

“What if it’s her son, Dean? This woman has lost everything. What if one of the woodsmen shoots him by accident when they’re hunting the wolves. He shouldn’t be out there on his own. We should find him. I’m going to talk to her. You can stay here if you want.”

Dean makes an impatient sound and gets up. “Fine, let’s go.”

It’s warmer than it was yesterday. Pale, watery sunlight filters through the trees and the road through the village is sludgy with muddy ice. People stare at them openly and a mother pushes her two curious children behind her skirt when they walk by, trying to look friendly and non-threatening,

They notice the Browning cottage as soon as they see it. It’s at the edge of the village, a ramshackle building with a thatched roof covered in moss. It’s surrounded by a half-rotted wooden fence. A thin-looking goat with a heavy udder comes out of its hutch and bleats plaintively at them when they enter the yard.

Sam knocks on the door a couple of times. They wait, but nobody answers. Sam tries the latch, then pushes the door open.

“What are you doing?” Dean hisses.

Ignoring him, Sam peers around the side of the door. “Mrs. Browning? Are you here?”

There’s a woman standing at the kitchen table kneading bread. She looks older than she probably is, thin with a lined and haggard face. Dark hair streaked with grey hangs down past her shoulders. Her cotton dress is stained and the hem is ragged. She’s barefoot despite the cold. She startles when she sees them. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Sam steps into the kitchen and puts up his hands in a placating gesture. “Martha, my name’s Sam. This is my brother Dean. We’re staying at the inn. We don’t mean you any harm. We’d just like to talk to you.”

“What about?” she asks sharply, rubbing her flour-covered hands on her dress. “My husband’s not here.” She looks around her in a distracted way. “He’ll be back soon. He’s cutting trees in the forest. He’s not taking anybody on right now. You should look for work someplace else. It’s winter. Come back in the spring.”

Dean rolls his eyes at Sam and mouths the word “Crazy” at him.

Gently, Sam says to her, “We’re not looking for Aaron. We’d like to talk to you, Martha.”

Martha blinks a few times. “Tea, did you say? Yes, we can have tea. You’re friends of Aaron’s? He’ll be back soon. He’s cutting trees in the forest.” She turns to the wood-burning range behind her and moves a kettle onto the cooktop. “Let’s have tea. It’s cold out there.”

Sam sits down at the kitchen table. “Thank you, tea would be nice.” Dean sighs and sits down next to him. They wait for her as she bustles around the kitchen.

“It’s nice to have visitors,” she says when she sits opposite them. She smiles and pats her hair in an attempt to neaten it. “Don’t get that many anymore. Not since—” She suddenly looks toward the door as if she’d heard something, then frowns in confusion. “The children shouldn’t be out there in the snow. They don’t listen. Willful, that’s what they are.”

Sam and Dean glance at each other.

“That’s what we’d like to talk to you about, Martha. Can you tell us what happened when you were coming home that night. Can you tell us about the wolves.”

“Wolves,” she hisses, her face twisting into a vicious expression as she leans forward and looks at them with narrowed eyes. “You don’t know anything about wolves. Nobody does.” Her breath is sour and there’s a strange vacancy in her eyes.

Waves of intense, emotional energy are emanating from her. Sam concentrates and tries to read her jumbled thoughts and sort through the fragmented images he can see in her mind. He can see a horse racing through the woods pulling a sledge behind it, then glowing eyes appearing in the undergrowth, dark forms, so many of them. He can feel her terror, but it’s all so confused and chaotic. He wants to reach out and hold her hand—physical contact always makes it easier—but he’s afraid of spooking her.

“He was born different,” she says.

“Who?” Dean asks.

“It was a terrible birth, like he was trying to kill me when he came out. My Nathaniel. My boy.”

“What happened that night with the wolves?” Sam reaches forward and gently takes her hand. “Don’t be afraid, Martha. Show me what happened.” Her hand twitches in his but she doesn’t pull away. “God forgive me but I needed to keep him safe. He was different. Special. I needed to keep him safe from them.”

A clear picture forms in his mind and Sam jerks back, shocked. “How could you do that?”

“What?” Dean demands. “What happened?”

Tears start running down Martha’s face. “And I did it all for nothing. They tore apart my little girls. A sacrifice to try and save him, and all for nothing.”

A feeling of terrible sadness and sympathy overwhelms Sam, tempering the horror he felt when he first realized what she’d done. “You threw your girls off the sledge?”

Martha nods. “First the one, hoping it would be enough, but they just kept coming. Then the other. My little girls for Nathaniel. But they took him anyway. Tore him out of my arms.”

“Christ,” Dean exclaims.

Martha wipes her tears with her hair and looks toward the window, her voice clear and lucid when she says, “I see him sometimes at the window at night, peering in, face like a devil, wearing a wolfskin. He’s one of them now. I couldn’t keep him safe.”

She gets up and starts mechanically kneading the dough she’d left sitting on a wooden board, a blank expression on her face. “Aaron will be home soon. He’s cutting trees in the forest.”

Sam stands up. “I’m sorry, Martha. For everything you’ve been through.” He turns to look at her as they leave. She’s standing there, her hands sunk in the mound of dough, not kneading, vacantly looking out of the window.

Outside, Dean says, “I don’t know why you feel sorry for her. How could a mother do something like that?”

Sam closes the unsteady gate hanging on its final hinge behind them and turns to look at the cottage. “She did what she thought she had to. She deserves our pity.”

“She threw her little girls to the wolves,“ Dean says in hard voice and doesn’t look back as he strides up the road toward the inn.

Sam follows him, feeling angered by Dean’s anger. “And she’s suffered every day since then. She was faced with an impossible choice.”

Dean snorts in disgust. “Suffering is what she deserves. Everybody’s responsible for the decisions they make.”

Sam clenches his jaw and doesn’t respond. Things are always so clear for Dean. So black and white. He knows what Dean would’ve done in that situation. He would’ve fought to the end to save all three children, even if it meant none of them survived. He would’ve sacrificed himself. It’s always all or nothing for Dean.

Sam stops walking. “Do you trust me to make the right decisions?”

Dean turns and faces him, frowning. “What are you talking about? I trust you with my life. You know that.”

Sam scans his expression. “Yes, but that’s not quite the same thing. Do you think, when it comes down to it, that I’m the kind of person who will make the right choice.”

Dean runs an irritated hand through his hair. “Can we not do this philosophical speculation right now. There’s a pack of wolves out there picking off children. And I think you’re right, this wolf boy is her son and he has something to do with it.”

“Do you think he’s like me? Last night, he felt familiar somehow.”

“You mean does he have powers like yours?”

Sam nods.

“It’s possible. She seemed pretty adamant there was something different about him. I guess a parent knows.” He pauses, then adds quietly, “Sam, dad knew about you. He always knew. We talked about it the day he left.”

“What?” Sam asks in surprise. “Why haven’t you told me that before? What did he say?”

“He said they knew from the moment you were born. And that your gift would grow stronger as you got older. He told me to look out for you.”

Sam can tell there’s more to it, but when he tries to read Dean’s emotions he’s met with a blank wall. Dean’s gotten really good at doing that, like it’s some kind of unconscious defense mechanism. He’s the one person Sam can’t read. He feels like he knows Dean completely, and they’re so intuitively connected, but his brother’s inner thoughts are hidden from him. That makes him the one person able to lie to him.

“C’mon. Let’s go.”

Sam follows him silently, his thoughts filled with his dad. He now understands that sense of fear and disappointment he’d always read in him. The distance between them. His dad didn’t trust his gift. He wonders how his mom felt. He has virtually no memories of her. He knows Dean carried him out of the house on the night of the fire, that his dad fought to put it out but she died in the blaze. Thinking of her starts up an aching pain inside him. How is it possible to miss somebody this much when you have no memory of them?

His thoughts are interrupted by the sight of a large group of men, all carrying shotguns, gathered outside the inn.

Abraham, the black-bearded woodsman from the night before, introduces Sam and Dean to the others. “We appreciate the help, boys.”

The woodsmen are grim-faced and tough-looking. Sam can feel their eyes looking them over with suspicion. These are not people used to outsiders in their midst.

“What’s the plan?” Dean asks.

“We think they’re up on that ridge,” Abraham answers, pointing at the spruce-lined crest of a mountain just above the village. “We’ll go on foot, fan out from the base of the mountain and move up through the forest. Either of you boys any good at tracking?”

Sam answers, “My brother’s one of the best trackers you’ll ever meet.”

“Okay, the two of you take the east flank of the mountain. The plan is to kill the alpha pair and hope the pack will disperse without them. But feel free to kill as many of the bastards as you can.”

As the men confer among themselves, Dean goes back into the inn. Sam waits for him outside and watches the woodsmen disperse. Dean comes out with the shotgun over his shoulder and hands Sam the revolver in a holster. Sam belts it around his waist and shoves the boxes of ammunition Dean hands him into the pockets of his coat.

They leave the village, following a track that leads them east. A half-hour hike takes them into the thick forest that blankets the lower regions of the snow-capped mountain range.

About a mile into the forest they come upon the body of a dead wolf. It’s been shot twice through the side. “Been dead about two days,” Dean estimates, crouching down. “Nothing strange or supernatural about it. Just a wolf.” He stands up and looks at it. “Pity. It’s a beautiful animal. A female. Probably two or three years old.”

Sam stands next to him. “Do you think he’s controlling their behavior and making them do this? He’s obviously walking around the village at night. Maybe he’s using the wolves to terrorize the villagers.”

“Targeting their children would be a good way to do it.”

Sam puts his hand on Dean’s arm. “Are we going to kill him? He’s human, Dean.”

Dean turns away and kicks a rotted log out of his way. “Fuck, I don’t know.” He shifts his shotgun from one shoulder to the other, looking out into the trees, his jaw hard.

“I’m not sure I can do that,” Sam says quietly.

Dean runs a hand through his hair, his jaw clenching. He turns and meets Sam’s eyes. “Yeah, I know, me neither.”

“Do you think dad’s killed people?”

“I don’t know,” Dean replies angrily. “It’s not like he’s around to share his wisdom with us.”

They turn quickly when a sound comes from higher ground, guns in their hands and pointing in the direction it came from.

There’s some movement at the top of a rocky outcrop about fifty yards ahead of them. They wait, silent and alert. A big grey wolf appears above the rock face and looks down at them, its eyes a bright, staring gold. Dean disengages the shotgun's safety, his finger on the trigger.

“Wait,” Sam whispers to him.

Another wolf appears, and then the boy. He’s wrapped in a thick creamy-grey wolfskin. His face is tanned dark and smeared with dirt, his eyes amber-gold like the wolves either side of him. Long black hair covers his shoulders. He places his hands on the heads of the wolves and they sit on their haunches next to him.

The boy's gold eyes are on Sam. Moving his arm, Sam adjusts his aim. The boy stands there, still and waiting. Sam takes a deep breath and lowers his arm. The boy’s lips twist into a smile and he pats the heads of the wolves.

Like grey ghosts, the three of them silently disappear behind the rocky outcrop.

His heart beating hard and fast, Sam looks over at Dean. Dean gestures toward the right and starts heading to the left. Sam nods and moves quietly, stepping carefully over fallen branches and icy patches on the forest floor.

He’s just coming around the side of the rocky outcrop when he hears a snarl and sees one of the wolves leap out at Dean. It’s instinctive, the blast of energy that comes from him, throwing the wolf mid-leap against a tree. Sam hears its pained howl and then something hits him from the back. Pain shatters through his head from the base of his skull, splintering into sharp, agonizing shards. He feels the revolver fall from his hand and chokes on a gasp of pain, his vision distorting into quivering fragments. He fights against the blackness pulling him down into itself and tries to stay standing, but it’s overwhelming.

He has a momentary experience of pain as he falls to his knees on hard rock and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a trope in Russian folklore and fairy tales, this idea of throwing people off the sledge to the wolves to save yourself. Willa Cather uses a version of it for one of her Russian characters in My Antonia. Robert Browning uses it in Ivan Ivanovich where a mother throws all three of her children to the wolves to save herself.


	3. Chapter 3

Dampness. Fire-warmth. Trickling sound of water. Dark and closed-in.

Sam’s brain starts trying to analyze and categorize all those sensory messages. He opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is Dean’s face close to his. His eyes are shut and there are abrasions down the side of his cheek, a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. He’s breathing shallowly. 

“Dean?” Sam says in a hoarse whisper. Orienting himself, he becomes aware that he’s lying on his side and struggles into a sitting position. He reaches out to touch Dean’s face. “Dean?”

Dean groans, rolls onto his back and half opens his eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he mutters. He wipes the side of his mouth and clenches and unclenches his jaw a couple of times.

Sam sighs in relief. He looks around him and realizes they’re in what must be a cave, the roof about ten feet high in the central cavern, tapering into a black recess at the far end. At the other end, light is streaming in from the mouth of the cave. There’s a fire burning a few feet away, and on the other side of it is the boy.

He’s sitting on his wolfskin pelt, naked, his face nestled in the thickly-furred neck of one of the wolves and he’s crooning gently to it. The other wolf is lying on its belly in front of them with its head between its forepaws, watching.

The wolf who is being consoled makes a whining sound and licks the boy in the face. It snuffles into his wild and matted hair and rests its head on his shoulder. The boy scratches its ears affectionately. Huffing a sigh, the wolf gets up, stretches its forelegs and shakes itself. It comes around the side of the fire and Sam shifts protectively in front of Dean. The wolf gives them a long look, then makes that huffing sound again and pads out of the cave, limping slightly. The other wolf gets up and lopes after it.

Sam turns when Dean grunts and levers himself into a sitting position. “Christ,” he says, holding his ribs. “Feel like I’ve been dragged along a rough road.”

He looks that way too. Sam runs his hands over Dean’s ribs and collarbones, feeling for any damage. He’s become practiced at this and wishes he didn’t know the sickening sound of a joint being put back in place. “Sure you’re alright?”

“I don’t think anything’s broken. You?”

Sam touches the back of his head and grimaces when he feels a swelling at the base of his skull. The skin’s broken and there’s blood on his fingers when he looks at them in the firelight, but it doesn’t feel like a serious injury. “Yes, I’m fine. What happened out there? I don’t remember anything after one of the wolves jumped out at you.”

“You pissed him off when you hurt his wolf-daddy. I just felt this blast of energy before I was knocked out. He’s really strong, Sam. Stronger than you are.” Dean looks at the fire. “Do you think they’re planning on having man-stew for supper? Me, I get. I’m tasty. But you’re way too skinny.”

Sam laughs quietly, relieved to hear Dean’s familiar reaction to danger. 

They look up when the boy comes over and stands in front of them. His naked body is lithe with youthful muscle, elbows and knees rough with callouses, eyes a startling animal-gold in the dirtiness of his face. His expression is hard and he makes a growling sound at them before going over to the corner of the cave and bringing back a wooden bowl. He offers it to Sam impatiently, slopping liquid on the floor. Sam takes it and sniffs, then sips tentatively. It’s cold, clean mountain water. He takes a few swallows and passes it to Dean. Dean drinks thirstily. Both of them keep their eyes warily on the boy.

The boy nods in approval and his expression softens, like a bond of trust has been forged through his giving and their taking. He squats down and looks at Sam closely, head cocked to the side the way an animal assesses the incomprehensibility of humans. Up close, he looks younger, but Sam can sense something in him that feels ancient. It’s his power. That same deep core of power Sam has always felt in himself, something very, very old. 

The boy suddenly reaches out and takes hold of Sam’s arm in a firm grip and starts tugging him forward. Surprised and unsure, Sam resists and tries to free his arm. Dean pulls Sam back with one arm and shoves the boy away with his other hand. “Hey! Keep your damn hands off him!”

The boy makes an irritated grunting noise and shakes his head. He crouches in front of Sam and holds out one hand encouragingly. Dean knocks it away.

Sam holds Dean back. “It’s okay. I don’t think he wants to hurt me.”

The boy cocks his head and looks at them curiously, eyes glittering in the firelight. He scratches the side of his face in a gesture so strangely canine that Sam can’t help the small laugh that escapes him. The boy’s lips stretch in a wolfy smile and he reaches out both hands to encourage Sam closer to the fire. Sam watches him carefully and shuffles closer.

Dean gets to his feet a little unsteadily. “If you even think about hurting him, I’ll rip your head off.”

The boy shows his teeth at Dean, then moves to kneel behind Sam. He scratches aside the hair at his nape, and Sam sucks in a surprised breath when he starts licking the wound at the base of his skull, tongue cleaning it with long, wet swipes.

“Fuck, that’s not sanitary at all,” Dean says. “Sam, you alright?”

It’s Dean’s checking-in tone of voice, a familiar refrain to assure Sam he’s there if he needs him. Sam nods and closes his eyes as he feels healing warmth building in his neck and washing down his shoulders. It’s so soothing. He can’t help letting out a soft sigh. That seems to encourage the boy to shift closer. He nuzzle Sam’s ear, his breath hot on his neck. It feels like companionable affection, the way he was nuzzling the wolf earlier, but then it shifts into something else when he starts stroking Sam’s arms. Sam’s eyes flick open when he becomes aware of the hardening erection pressing into his back.

“Uh, Sam, is he doing what I think he’s doing?”

Sam turns around and pushes the boy away gently. “No, Nathaniel, don’t do that.”

The boy sits back, open legged and unembarrassed by his erection and Sam's rejection. There’s a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth. He lowers his hand and starts stroking himself.

A surprised laugh gets caught in Sam’s throat at how shamelessly instinctive he is.

“I think he likes you,” Dean says in a tone that sounds half disturbed, half amused.

Sam touches the boy’s arm and stills the movement of his hand. “No, Nathaniel.”

His gaze speculative, the boy looks from Sam to Dean, then back again. His lips twitch into that wolf-like smile and he grabs Dean’s wrist, pulls him down and presses his hand between Sam’s legs, making a guttural sound that sounds completely unlike human language.

Sam doesn’t flinch away. Dean’s hand between his legs feels entirely natural, after all, and it’s liberating not to have to hide, to somehow have a witness to his feelings for Dean. He also knows alpha pairs often mate for life and the boy needs to be shown that the attraction he feels for Sam won’t be reciprocated.

“That’s right, wolf boy,” Dean says, cupping Sam’s crotch. “This belongs to me. Keep your hands to yourself.” He puts a possessive arm around Sam’s shoulder, keeps his eyes on the boy as he turns his head and kisses Sam proprietarily on the mouth.

Sam kisses him back, his hand coming to rest at the base of Dean’s neck, holding him close, just allowing himself to feel relief at the warm familiarity of Dean’s mouth. For a heart-stopping moment earlier when he’d seen Dean lying next to him, he hadn’t been sure if he was still breathing. Dean sighs against his lips and kisses him deeper. They pull apart and look intently at each other, briefly forgetting everything else. Sam thinks it’s entirely possible that if Dean died, his own heart would just stop beating of its own accord.

When they look back at the boy, he grins happily at them and crosses his legs, watching them expectantly.

Dean lets go of Sam. “But what Sam and me do together is not for an audience, wolf boy.”

The boy cocks his head curiously at them, then shrugs.

Expression turning sly, he turns his head and looks hard at his wolfskin on the other side of the fire. Sam shivers when it twitches, shifts, then slowly slithers across the cave floor toward them as if it’s alive. It lifts up behind the boy and wraps him in a warm animal embrace. He pulls it tightly around his shoulders and arches an eyebrow at Sam.

“I think he’s challenging you, Sam.”

Sam gives the boy a long look. The energy coming off him is so familiar he can feel it in his bones. Choosing something simple that he can do almost without thinking, he looks at the fire and makes it dwindle down to glowing coals, then leap up in huge flames. Fire has always felt like an easy medium for his power. Since he was little, he’s been able to manipulate and control it.

The boy grins happily, his tongue hanging out between his red lips. 

“Yes, Nathaniel, I’m like you.”

The boy cocks his head again in that wolf-like gesture of curious incomprehension.

It’s frustrating, this barrier between them that requires language to overcome. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”

The boy shrugs, opens his legs and scratches his crotch before lifting his fingers to his nose and sniffing them. He starts chewing on a ragged fingernail.

“Maybe he’s got fleas,” Dean says dryly. “Can we start making a plan for how to get out of here? Maybe you should ask him nicely. He seems to have a thing for you. And can you get him to tell his wolves to stop eating kids.”

Sam realizes he doesn’t need language to communicate. There are other ways to find out why the wolves are attacking the village. It seems incomprehensible that Nathaniel would be motivated by malice, and the wolves themselves don’t feel dangerous. They seem sensitive and aware in a way he hasn’t sensed with other wild wolves, which probably comes from the bond with Nathaniel. The alpha pair clearly love him as one of their own.

He moves closer to Nathaniel and sits cross-legged in front of him, hands stretched out. “Give me your hands, Nathaniel.”

The boy carefully scans his face before making a guttural acquiescing sound and putting out his hands. Sam takes hold of them and closes his eyes.

At first there’s just a strange nothingness, something empty and dimensionless about Nathaniel’s mind. Sam concentrates harder and is suddenly hit with a sensory onslaught of smells and images, just immediate primal sentience. Feeling overwhelmed, he takes a deep breath and hears Dean crouch next to him, feels the warmth of Dean’s hand on his knee. “You okay?” That checking-in tone of voice again, steady and reassuring, always there, even when Sam feels like he’s alone. He nods, keeping his eyes closed.

He delves deeper, trying to understand the world of sensual immediacy that fills Nathaniel’s thoughts, no sense of past or future or language, just wild reasoning that is so utterly foreign.

Suddenly distracted by an outside stimulus, he becomes conscious of the heat of the fire against his skin.

“Those flames are growing really big, Sam. Think you can slow everything down a little?”

Sam steadies his heartbeat and tries to rein-in the leaking of his power out into the physical world.

He focuses back on Nathaniel and concentrates on sorting through the fast-flowing images. He can feel Nathaniel reaching out and communicating with him, trying to show him something. He wants to understand but it’s like listening to somebody speak a language you’ve never even heard before. The headache starts and he tastes blood at the back of his throat.

Disengaging himself from his body, he begins to understand that visualizing Nathaniel’s experience of the world is not the key. He has to make himself blind in order to really understand. He has to feel what Nathaniel feels.

Everything goes black and then Sam feels power moving inside him, not his own, something different and more powerful than his own gift. He knows what it’s like to be able to heal. He feels the love and companionship of the pack, but he also feels alienation and loneliness, he knows what it’s like to feel the difference between being furred and naked, to know you are both a wolf and not a wolf.

He falls deeper and deeper, not just feeling, but becoming, his own sense of self being absorbed into Nathaniel.

He’s walking through the village at night, unseen and apart. He’s fascinated by the strangeness of people. He watches from the rooftops and other dark and hidden places, always in the shadows. He’s drawn to one person in particular, so sad and broken, and somehow familiar, a mother, so unlike his own strong and beautiful wolf-mother. But mostly, he watches the young, the fur-less pups who are stroked and petted and loved. And he wants them. Sam wants them because Nathaniel wants them. His wolf brothers and sisters understand his longing and help him to gather the young to make his own family within the pack.

A part of Sam knows he’s falling too deep and prompts him to take control of the bond. He can feel it between him and Nathaniel, strong and burning bright. They’re in a transcendent space, bodiless, perfectly coordinated. He can communicate with Nathaniel here. He feels a deep empathy for Nathaniel’s loneliness and a surge of relief that the village children are still alive. He can sense they’re probably nearby. He can also sense that Nathaniel will not want to let them go. But it’s Sam’s turn to speak.

He guides Nathaniel to a familiar place where he will feel secure.

The cave is dark, very hot and they’re both naked, sitting and facing each other next to the fire. Nathaniel’s form is different here, barely human, more wolf-like, his eyes like solid gold stone. The pack surrounds them—solemn, ceremonial observers—panting in the heat from the fire. The three small village children are there too, playing, mapping the village on the cave floor by drawing lines and shapes in the sand with their fingers.

“You can’t have them, Nathaniel.” 

Nathaniel watches them for a minute, then turns his gold eyes on Sam. “Why not.”

“They don’t belong here. They need to go home.”

Nathaniel shows his long, yellow teeth. “I’m strong. I can have whatever I want.”

Here more than in the real world, Sam can feel that ancient power in Nathaniel, but he’s also still a child, acting on instinct that is unmoderated by thought or ethical consideration.

“No, Nathaniel, you can’t. Being strong doesn’t mean you can have what you want. There are consequences. And you can’t stay here anymore. Men will come. You’re very strong but you can’t fight them all.”

Nathaniel looks at him steadily. “I don’t want to fight.”

“But that’s what will happen. You’ve stolen their young. So many wolves have already died. People will die. You need to let them go. Me and my brother will take them home safely.”

The wolves around them start shuffling. The big grey alpha comes forward and sits beside Nathaniel, resting its head gently on his shoulder. Nathaniel turns and nuzzles it. They sit like that close together, sharing something. Nathaniel looks down and Sam can feel pained energy coming from him. Eventually, he looks up and asks, “Will you come with us. You’re not like them. You’re like me.”

“No, Nathaniel, I can’t. My place is with my brother. Your place is with the pack.”

The alpha nuzzles Nathaniel and makes a whining noise. Nathaniel smiles sadly and looks at Sam. “I understand what you have shown me. The pack wants to move on and I will go with them.”

He picks up a handful of ash and sand, and blows it in Sam’s face.

Sam comes out of it suddenly, like startling out of a dream. Somebody’s shaking his shoulders and he growls in irritation.

“Whoa, easy there, boy. It’s me.” Dean’s crouched in front of him, his expression wary and concerned.

Sam looks around and takes in his surroundings: the cave as it exists in the real world, the fire, Nathaniel on the other side of Dean.

“You okay?” Dean asks carefully. “You’re not going to bite me or anything, are you?”

Sam shakes his head to clear it and blinks a few times. “Why would I bite you?”

“I don’t know, Sam. That was a pretty scary sound you just made.”

Nathaniel leans past Dean and licks Sam’s face. Dean shoulders him away. “That’s okay, wolfy, I got it.” He uses his sleeve to wipe the blood from Sam’s nose. “You were gone for a really long time. What did you see?”

Sam tells Dean about the three missing children in another cave nearby, glancing at Nathaniel as he speaks. Nathaniel is contemplating the fire, a pained seriousness to his expression that wasn’t there before. Sam feels pity for him, remembering what it was like to be abruptly wrenched out of the world of childhood and into the bewildering, complicated realm of adulthood.

“You talked him out of it, right?”

Sam nods. “He understands. The pack will leave at sunset and move further north. He’ll show us where they’re keeping the children.”

“Okay, let’s get out of here before anybody changes their minds. We need to find the shotgun and revolver and get the kids back before dark.”

Nathaniel leads them to the other cave where the children are strangely resistant to the idea of going home. Dean has to throw them unceremoniously over his shoulders and carry them kicking and screaming out of the cave, under the disapproving eyes of the guarding contingent of wolves.

They start making their way down a track into the forest. Sam stops to look back. Nathaniel is standing on a ridge with the alpha male and female on either side of him. The sky is a fiery red backdrop behind them. Nathaniel lifts his hand. Sam waves back, feeling an ache somewhere inside him. Maybe it’s sadness for Nathaniel, who will always have to straddle two worlds. Maybe it’s sadness for himself, knowing he’s also an outsider in the world he lives in. Maybe it’s a hidden longing to go with them.

Always perceptive, Dean mutters, “Don’t even think about it, Sam,” as he drags the kids down the path into the forest.

Sam follows him, amused at his grumpy impatience with the kids. It’s a long hike back to the village. Dean becomes less grumpy and teaches the kids songs as they walk, then tells them violent, blood-curdling stories about terrifying monsters, which keeps them entertained, but makes Sam worry about further mental scarring.

The villagers are, of course, utterly astonished when they get back. The parents are profoundly grateful and offer them gifts. Sam has to turn down a prize goat and an offer of marriage with an older daughter. Some of the woodsmen remain hard-eyed and suspicious about their story of stumbling upon the children in the cave and chasing off the wolves.

These are all reactions they’re starting to get used to in their travels.

Abraham, who appears to be the village leader, buys everyone a drink at the inn and there’s a lot of drunken carousing and feasting into the night. Dean flirts with a lot of pretty village girls and Sam watches him with amused forbearance while discussing the lumber trade with a few of the older woodsmen. 

They’re both more than a little drunk by the time they get back to the room.

As soon as Sam closes the door behind them, Dean pushes him up against it and kisses him, his tongue hot and insistent in Sam’s mouth, his breath tasting like apple cider. Sam turns his head and lets Dean suck wet kisses down his neck, angling his hips closer to feel Dean hardening against him. It's a little frightening how desperate he feels sometimes to have Dean’s hands on him.

“You’re incredible, you know that,” Dean says between kisses. “What you can do, the way you can get into a person’s mind like that, it’s scary and impressive and beautiful. That’s what you are, Sam. Scary and beautiful.”

Sam leans back against the door and considers Dean’s face. He wouldn’t be talking like this if he hadn’t just drunk most of the woodsmen under the table. Dean’s ability to stay standing no matter how much he drinks is impressive in itself. “Why can’t I do it with you? Your mind’s a locked room.”

Dean gives a throaty laugh when he starts unbuttoning Sam's shirt. “There’s nothing interesting in there anyway. You know how simple I am. Food, fighting, fucking. Those are the only things I think about. I’m not like you, little brother.” He pulls Sam’s shirt open and latches onto one of his nipples, sucking hard. “Guess which one of those things I’m thinking about right now.”

Sam arches his back when Dean sucks his other nipple and rubs his calloused thumb over the one he’d just had in his mouth. It’s wet with Dean’s spit, sensitive and tingling with over-stimulation. “Food?” he hazards with a laugh when Dean moves up and starts roughly biting his neck. He can feel Dean grin before he starts moving his mouth down, nipping and sucking like he really does want to eat Sam alive.

Sam’s breath gets caught in his throat when Dean sinks to his knees and pulls down his pants. He doesn’t hesitate or look back up, just wraps a firm hand around Sam's dick, tongues the slit, licks the head and sucks it hard. Sam’s hips stutter forward and he puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder to steady himself.

Face flushed and lips wet with spit, Dean keeps his eyes down and says, “If you want, you can come in my mouth.”

The thought of Dean allowing him to do that sends a hard jolt of desire through Sam and he's surprised by the low growl that comes out of his own throat. 

Dean laughs and drops his hand to squeeze his erection through his pants. “Jesus, that makes me so hard. I thought about you fucking me right there in the cave when you growled at me like that. I’m sure wolf boy would’ve loved that. Honestly, though, it was a little frightening too.” He presses a kiss to Sam’s hipbone and looks up. “You’re not going to start scratching your crotch in public and sniffing my ass now, are you?”

Sam doesn’t allow himself to laugh. It only ever encourages Dean. “I think I’m losing my erection.”

Arching an eyebrow, Dean looks at his dick. “Doesn’t look that way to me, Sammy.”

Sam has to silently admit to the truth of that. Dean’s stupid sense of humor only ever makes Sam love him more, even though he’ll never admit to it. He hauls Dean up by the shoulders and pushes him onto the bed, enjoying the surprised expression on his face when Dean's back hits the mattress and the air is knocked out of him. Sam crawls up his body and straddles him. “Do you ever stop talking?”

Dean just laughs and strips off his own shirt. “If my brain’s a locked room, how else are you going to know what I’m thinking?”

Sam pinches his nipples hard. “You’re right, most of the time I actually don’t want to know.” He runs his hand down Dean’s smooth chest and flat stomach, briefly pokes him in the bellybutton because he knows Dean doesn’t like it, then undoes the button of his pants before he can complain about it. He lifts up and pushes them down Dean’s hips. Dean kicks them off and groans when their dicks touch. Sam takes them both in his hand, squeezes lightly and starts stroking, so turned on by the sight and feeling of it.

Dean throws his head back, closes his eyes and expels a deep, satisfied sigh. “God, that feels good.”

Sam watches him, his eyes travelling over the familiarity of Dean’s beautiful face, the straight lines of his cheekbones and softness of his lips, parted and panting little breaths. He leans forward and kisses him. “I love you.”

Dean opens his eyes and smiles. “I love you too.” He glances away and bites his lip. “Uh, I’ve got something.”

Alerted by something in his tone, Sam loosens his hold on their dicks and sits back. “What?” he asks carefully.

Dean reaches out and fumbles for his overshirt, takes out a small bottle of what looks like a colorless oil from the pocket. Placing it on his chest, he lies back and looks up with a serious, hesitant expression.

Sam looks at it and asks, “What’s it for?”

“It’s just—It’s okay, using spit, but it’s not like you’re all that small. And this will help. It will make it easier, smoother, you know. If you want to.”

Realization dawns and Sam replies, “Oh, okay.” He picks up the bottle and uncorks it, gives it a little sniff. It doesn’t really smell like anything. He rubs a drop of it between his fingertips. It’s slick and oily. He feels a flush of heat rising up from his chest into his face. Meeting Dean’s eyes, he says, “Yes, I want to.”

It’s an understatement. He finds it deeply arousing to put his fingers and his tongue inside Dean. He’s never felt any shame at wanting to do that. Last night, being inside Dean, felt different to when they get each other off with their hands or mouths. It felt like Dean was really allowing him in, and not just in the obviously physical sense.

Dean makes a small sound halfway between a cough and a laugh. “Okay, good. Me too.”

Sam finds himself suddenly uncertain about how to say it in words, which always sound like a crude imitation of what he means. “If you turn over and get up on knees and your hands, or like maybe your elbows, then I could. I could put it on. I mean, I could put it inside you. And on me too, of course.”

Dean’s lips twitch. “So you want me on all fours with my ass in the air?”

Sam bites his lip to suppress a laugh. Trust Dean to just say it like it is, and Sam knows what’s coming next. “Dean, if you make a joke about dogs or wolves right now, I’m going to leave you like this and go find that pretty village girl, who, according to her parents, would make me a really good wife. She can cook too, you know. Something you’re really bad at.” 

Dean laughs. “You really can’t read my thoughts. I wasn’t thinking about wolf-sex, not at all. Anyway, she wasn’t that pretty. She had a squint.” His expression turns serious. “Lift up.”

Sam can’t help his intake of breath when Dean turns around and buries his face in the pillow, his knees wide and body on display. Sam loves everything about Dean’s body. Before they started doing this, he’d have to tear his eyes away from him when Dean was undressed and clench his nails into his palms as hard as he could to stop himself from reaching for him.

He moves to kneel behind him and strokes one muscled cheek before dribbling some of the oil on his fingers, his hands shaking a little. Dean makes a choked-off sound when Sam pushes one finger inside him, the oil making it so smooth and easy. He pushes in and pulls out slowly, drawing in another quick breath when Dean makes that sound again. He pours more oil on Dean’s hole and eases in another finger, widening them slightly, feeling the stretch of Dean’s body, crooks his fingers and rubs. Dean gasps and pushes back on his fingers.

Sam’s so hard and he’s starting to sweat. He pushes his fingers deeper and changes the angle. Dean groans. “Stop. I’m going to come if you don’t.”

“Just from this?” Sam asks in a quiet, awed voice.

Dean clenches the pillow and doesn’t answer, his body trembling.

Sam strokes him gently. “Do you want to do it like this from the back?”

Dean turns his head and looks at him over his shoulder. “If you want to.”

It isn’t what he wants. He wants to see Dean as they’re doing it. “I think—” he pulls Dean’s arm and turns him over so he’s lying on his back, knees open and legs loose around Sam’s hips. “Like this rather.”

Dean’s chest is flushed and his eyes are hooded, his breathing uneven. “Yeah, okay.”

Sam dribbles some oil onto his hand and rubs it along his erection. Dean tilts his hips and Sam lines up. He slides in very slowly, trying to remember to breathe. Their eyes meet when he starts to thrust and Dean lifts slightly to meet him.

They look at each other the whole time and Sam has the strangest feeling that he’s in danger of drowning in the green of Dean’s eyes.

“I’m going to come, Dean.”

Dean starts stroking himself, his eyes never leaving Sam’s face. He lifts his hips higher when Sam’s thrusts get faster. Sam has to close his eyes when he starts to orgasm and feels Dean’s body contracting at the same time, and then it’s like falling into warm drowning water, somewhere he could lose himself and never come back from.

Slowly surfacing, he opens his eyes and feels Dean's hand clenching his thigh. Dean’s expression is uncertain and his forehead is furrowed. “Hey, you okay?”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Yes, why?”

“You just seemed to get lost there for a minute. Where'd you go?”

Sam blinks a few times and licks his dry lips. He can see Dean’s come striped up his stomach and chest. “Uh, I don't know. Sorry,” he says, feeling a little embarrassed. He pulls out gently. Dean groans and carefully stretches out his legs. Sam lies down, his head next to Dean’s on the pillow.

Dean reaches out and puts his hand on Sam’s stomach. “That was good, right?”

Sam doesn't want him to think it was anything other than absolutely incredible. He props himself up on his elbow. “Yes, it really, really was. Sorry if it felt like I disappeared. I wasn’t forgetting it was you. I never forget that it’s you.”

Dean smiles and pats Sam's stomach “Yeah, I know.” He gets up gingerly and pours some water into the washbasin and cleans himself, grimacing slightly when he wipes between his cheeks.

Sam leans on his elbow and watches him. “I think it will probably get easier if we do it more often.”

Dean grins and throws the wet cloth at him. “I seriously hope you’re not suggesting we do it again right now.”

Sam smiles and cleans himself. “Or, you know, you could do it to me next time.” He hears Dean swallow from across the room.

Dean comes back and gets into bed with him, pulling him close. “Okay, if you want to.”

Sam rests his head on Dean’s chest and listens to his heartbeat. “I do.”

Dean strokes his hair. “Okay.”

Sam falls asleep like that with Dean’s steady heartbeat in his ear.

The sound of it echoes into his dreams. He knows there’s someone or something at the end of the bed watching them sleep. He can hear its heartbeat. He thinks he can smell something burning. Smoke starts seeping up from underneath the bed and filling the room.

He wakes up with a start, sitting up straight and looking around him for the fire.

Pale dawn-light glows at the window and Dean’s packing his bag. He pauses and raises his eyebrows. “Nightmare?”

Sam runs his hand through his hair and tries to get his breathing under control. Something felt horribly familiar about the dream.

Dean checks the barrel of the shotgun before putting it in his bag. “You alright?” He comes over and kisses him on the top of his head, warm hand at the base of Sam’s neck. “We should get going.”

Sam nods and swings his legs off the bed. The stone floor is cold beneath his feet. He dresses quickly and checks they haven’t left anything in the room. They’ve learned to travel light. Things never meant that much to either of them and now everything they own fits into two bags.

“Ready?” Dean says at the doorway, bag slung over his shoulder, a smile on his face. Dean loves being on the road.

Sam smiles back and thinks he’s ready to go anywhere as long as Dean’s by his side.

THE END.

Art by TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be more of this verse when RL settles down a little and stops distracting me from obsessing about wolves and Sam & Dean exploring their sexual relationship.


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